


soupsy-daisy

by theantepenultimateriddle



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: F/F, sorry about the bad pun in the title
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-26
Updated: 2018-02-26
Packaged: 2019-03-24 05:45:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13804680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theantepenultimateriddle/pseuds/theantepenultimateriddle
Summary: Minkowski’s sick in bed and Lovelace is going to make her something nice and homemade if it kills her. Which it might.





	soupsy-daisy

Chicken soup. Simple, right? 

Considering the only things she’s made on her own for the past… while… have been microwave-only, Lovelace doesn’t have high hopes for the results of her cooking. But she’ll be damned if she makes something canned for Minkowski now, especially as she’s coughing her lungs out audibly in the other room. She can do this. She made it out of hell alive, after all. She made it back to earth. She can make a fucking bowl of decent soup, especially with the help of google and recipes. Lovelace has  _ got _ this.

Okay. First step, says the tutorial, get a pot. Lovelace glances helplessly at the pots in the sink, then sighs. Alright. She shrugs. “Something else, then.” Lovelace turns to the cupboards and rummages through them, eventually coming up with a glass dish that looks to be about the right size.  _ You can boil water in this, right? Right.  _ Lovelace fills the pan with water over the sink and carefully sets it down on the stove burner, turning the heat up to high. Second step, says the tutorial as the pot begins to bubble, put in the chicken you’ve cooked and chopped up beforehand. Lovelace groans, turns the stove off, and starts making the chicken in the pan, praying. When she’s done with that with relatively few incidents, she turns the burner back on under the glass dish and waits for the water to boil again. 

The tutorial says more things after cooking the chicken, but let’s be real, she was never going to follow it all the way through in the first place. 

When the water starts boiling, Lovelace moves to add the chicken, but as soon as it hits the water the dish explodes with a  _ bang _ like a gunshot and Lovelace dives to the ground to avoid the flying shards of glass and boiling water going everywhere. She’s only partially successful-- she hits the ground hard enough to knock the breath out of her and manages to avoid being scalded, but a large piece of glass from the dish hits her and embeds itself deep in her arm. “Ow!” Lovelace reflexively clamps her hand to the wound, then winces when it cuts her hand too. The kitchen is soaked and covered in glass.

From the bedroom, she hears Minkowski call out sleepily. “Lovelace? Are you okay?” 

_ Fuck. _

“I’m fine, angel!” Lovelace yells back as blood drips from her arm and water drips from-- from everything, the counters and the walls and the ceiling. “Go back to sleep, Minkowski.”

Minkowski makes a sleepy noise, then gives her a sigh that turns into a wrenching, deep-throated cough. “Fine,” she eventually manages, and the covers rustle as she presumably rolls over in bed. A few minutes later Lovelace hears her snoring and breathes out in relief. She has at least a little time to clean up this mess before Minkowski wakes up and has a fit. She stands, her feet unsteady beneath her, and manages to make her way out of the kitchen and into the nearby bathroom without dripping too much blood on the hardwood floor. When she gets there she pulls the first-aid kit out from under the sink, looks at her arm, winces, and pulls the shard out with a swift and painful movement. Blood flows a little more, but the wound looks worse than it is. She knows from experience.  _ Minkowski’s gonna wonder what  _ that  _ new scar is from. _

Lovelace cleans out the cut with hydrogen peroxide and iodine and manages not to make a noise as it stings like hell. She uses the gauze and bandages liberally until her arm is all wrapped up, then sits back and look at her handiwork. “Looks like I’m turning into a mummy one piece at a time,” she mutters into the air. Still better than bleeding everywhere, though. 

Lovelace uses paper towels to clean up the blood,  _ lots _ of paper towels. She disposes of them carefully, trying to make it so that Minkowski never (or at least, not while she’s still sick) sees the evidence of her cooking misadventure. Then there’s just the kitchen, the glass, and the water.

Chicken soup. Simple, right?

_ WRONG. _

Lovelace gets it done, eventually. It’s a pain in the ass sweeping up all the glass, but she does it, using dustpans and brooms and brushes and all the cleaning equipment they have.  _ At least the kitchen will be clean after all this.  _

As she’s tossing the last shards into the dustbin, she hears Minkowski stir in the other room, then call for her. “Lovelace?” 

Lovelace puts the dustpan down, shrugs her jacket on to cover the bandages, and heads back to the room, sitting down on the bed next to Minkowski. “Yeah, babe?” 

Minkowski looks up at her, managing to do puppy-dog eyes even though her gaze is bleary and sleepy. “‘M cold,” she mumbles, reaching out to take Lovelace’s arm into one of her fevered hands. “Hold me?” 

Lovelace winces as Minkowski inadvertently digs her fingers into her wound, but tries to keep it out of her voice. “Yes, of course. Hang on.” She ignores how Minkowski narrows her eyes suspiciously and slips under the covers with her, gingerly wrapping her arms around her. The look on Minkowski’s face doesn’t go away, though. If anything, she looks more alert. 

She tightens her grip on Lovelace’s arm, and Lovelace can’t help but exhale sharply, a little noise of pain forcing its way out of her. Minkowski turns sharply to look at her with her face squinched up into an expression that is equal parts anger and concern. “You’re hurt. Does this have anything to do with the explosion from the kitchen earlier?” 

_ Dammit.  _ Lovelace could never lie to her. She sighs. “Yeah. I was… trying to make soup. In a glass dish. It might have exploded slightly.” 

_ “Lovelace,”  _ says Minkowski, and even though her voice is hoarse and almost gone it still has the tone that says Lovelace is in trouble. 

Lovelace flattens her mouth into a line and looks away. “I cleaned everything up, and I’m fine. I’ll buy us a new pan, okay? I’m… sorry.” 

Minkowski stares at her for another second, then sighs. She stretches her neck up and kisses Lovelace gently, right under the edge of her jaw. “It’s okay. I’m glad you’re not hurt. Just don’t  _ ever _ do that again.”

“Will do, commander.” Lovelace raises her uninjured arm in a mock-salute. “Only microwave meals and takeout from now on.” She leans over, kisses Minkowski’s forehead, and then pauses. “Speaking of which, should I call Eiffel and get him to bring some soup over here?”

“Good idea,” whispers Minkowski, burying her head in the space between Lovelace’s neck and her shoulder. “Just talk quietly while you do.” Then she goes to sleep, cuddled against Lovelace, and Lovelace can’t help thinking about how much she loves this woman.   
  



End file.
